


Raw Shark

by SpaceCadetGlow



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Awkwardness, Body odor, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 12:44:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7052059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceCadetGlow/pseuds/SpaceCadetGlow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That one time I wrote a story about Rorschach's body odor...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raw Shark

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the Watchmen kinkmeme, which exists in its current iteration here: http://watchmen-km.dreamwidth.org/287.html. The prompt was something like, "What if Rorschach's body odor is actually a medical condition?"

“This is no picnic for me, either,” Daniel says, frustration lending a harried edge to his voice.

Rorschach's lip twitches. It's barely noticeable, but he knows that Daniel would pick it up, and is glad that he's facing away from his former partner.

“Implying something?” he counters smoothly. “About coat, perhaps? Old. Slightly musty. Apologies.” He's used to this, to making excuses for himself. Even though he hasn't had to explain himself to anyone for years, the small lies return easily. “Can't all be fastidious. Can't all keep hands clean.”

~*~*~*~

When Walter was six, his mother made him take a bath every day – sometimes two. “Can't have you going to school stinkin' like you do,” she said in the mornings, and in the evenings she said, “Jesus Christ, Walter, you're supposed to be goin' to the first grade, not the dump.” She'd toss him into the tub of lukewarm water and made sure he scrubbed himself from head to toe. Mother had stopped bathing him herself when he was four.

No matter how many baths he took, the smell always came back. He did not make many friends in the first grade.

~*~*~*~

There are doctors at the Lillian Charlton Home, lots of them. There are doctors that take care of sick bodies, and those that take care of sick minds, and those that say, Listen Walter, if you want to make something of yourself then you have to want it, not just mope around by yourself all day.

He is twelve, and wants to take boxing lessons. But whenever he gets sweaty, the stink is much worse, so he sits inside and reads instead.

The children at the Charlton Home see the doctors frequently. 

The doctor catches a whiff of him and frowns. “Have you been showering regularly, Walter?” he asks, just like every other doctor has.

“Yes, sir. Every day.” He used to be able to swing his legs when sitting in these chairs. 

The doctor eyes him. “Yes, the supervisors have been telling me the same. Walter, have you always had this difficulty with body odor?”

He's terribly ashamed, but he's not a liar. “Yes, sir.”

“I see,” the doctor says thoughtfully. “I believe it might be some kind of metabolic disorder. Caused by what, I don't know. But you should know that it's not your fault. It's just an imbalance in your body.”

It helps to know that, just a little bit. The doctor writes a note to the boxing coach, and Walter starts his training a week later.

~*~*~*~

Walter is fourteen, and he knows about these imbalances in the body that turn boys into pigs and girls into sluts. His voice sometimes cracks in church choir, as if he needed to get any worse at singing. His limbs don't seem to fit his body right anymore, and suddenly red hair has grown where there wasn't any before. The worst of it usually comes at night, when he wakes up sick and sticky with his own fluids.

He doesn't know what's wrong with him. 

The other boys touch themselves under the blankets when they think no one can see. Walter is very observant, and can see well in the dark. He thinks that maybe the reason he is sick at night is because he doesn't get the release the other boys do, so he tries it for himself. It feels good, but apparently he isn't the only observant one in the dormitory. 

“Shit, Kovacs,” Mac Johnston mutters sleepily from the next bed. “Even your jizz stinks, man.”

Walter never masturbates again in the Charlton Home. He knows what it is now, why he's cursed with this god-awful stench. _Whoreson._

~*~*~*~

Sometimes Walter believes what the doctor told him all those years ago. His boss at the tailor's shop pulls him aside, and says with obvious discomfort that some of his coworkers have been complaining about his lack of hygiene. Walter mutters, “It's... a metabolic disorder. Chemical imbalance.” His boss doesn't ask about it again, not for a long time, and Walter goes on believing it too.

When Kitty Genovese never makes it home to her apartment, when he sees how terrible the world really is, when he first goes out on patrol and sees the thugs and crooks and prostitutes, he remembers where he came from. When the urges from his teens don't go away, he knows he's being punished. He grits his teeth and ignores the aching in his loins and never, _ever_ touches down there, not even to wash. He's better than that.

~*~*~*~

He somehow has acquired a partner in crime-fighting. The second Nite Owl is strong and valiant, more academic than someone he thought he'd ever like, but he's so genuinely kind that he can't help but take to him right away. He doesn't say so, though. He's just waiting for the day Nite Owl wrinkles his nose in that familiar way and makes an offhand comment, not thinking of how much it will hurt. 

He covers himself up in as many layers as he can while still keeping his freedom of motion, in the hopes that the smell won't leak through. He scrubs his body after every patrol until it's as red as his hair and raw as his nerves, and takes the pieces of his costume to different laundromats -- he can't be seen taking the whole thing to one place -- as frequently as he can afford, daily whenever possible. But the summer is approaching fast, and the heat of New York is oppressive. One of these days, Nite Owl will say something.

~*~*~*~

It stings terribly whenever he goes to the bathroom. His urine stinks worse than usual, and his penis starts leaking a fluid that is neither urine nor the unfortunate filth that he is used to. He suffers it for almost a week, knowing this is just further punishment for him. He's disgusting, still wakes up with the proof of it sticking his briefs to his skin. 

He's convinced that he deserves it, but he isn't stupid. When blood appears in the toilet, he decides to bite the proverbial bullet and goes to the clinic. It's humiliating, having to answer a stranger's questions about his body, but in the end the doctor diagnoses it as an infection of the urinary tract, and sends him home with some antibiotics. It clears up in a few days, and he thinks that perhaps he should consider washing down there again. After all, he's twenty-eight. He ought to be the master of his own body by now.

~*~*~*~

“Man, I'm sweating buckets under this thing,” Nite Owl – Daniel – says, pulling his cowl back and wiping at his hairline. Daniel is careless about these things. His mask doesn't do enough to hide his face, and catching a glimpse of his hair color could be enough for a clever criminal mind to discover his true identity. He shouldn't have even told Rorschach his name – but Rorschach would never betray him.

“I don't know how you manage with all those layers.” He replaces his cowl and lifts his goggles to wipe around his eyes.

“Well enough,” Rorschach answers. Daniel's eyes are honey-brown, with so much more life in them than his own, dull and dirt-colored. “You shouldn't uncover yourself outside like this. You don't want to compromise the security of your civilian identity.”

It's the summer of 1969. A man walked on the moon last week, and liberal hippie trash have been talking about convening next month for sex and drugs under the guise of a concert. Rorschach will almost admit to himself that he's glad to get back inside Archie, with its conditioned air and comfortable seats. He's sweaty and tired under his trench coat, and scarf, and suit, and dress shirt, and undergarments. He closes his eyes for just a moment, and Daniel lands Archie so gently that he doesn't wake up until his partner touches his shoulder.

“I didn't want to wake you up, you seemed really wiped,” Daniel says, not seeming concerned by the way Rorschach jumps at the touch. He's already bounding out of the ship, shedding his outer layers and wiping at himself with a towel. “You're welcome to stay here, if you want,” he calls. “Or just relax if you want. Have a cold drink.”

Rorschach jumps out of the ship easily. He doesn't bother with things like stairs when he can practice his technique. “I could use a glass of water.” He takes off his gloves and wipes his wet hands on his coat. 

Daniel pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a white tee shirt and heads towards the stairs. Rorschach follows, replacing his gloves. They're halfway up the stairs when Daniel says it.

“You could probably use a shower too, huh?” Daniel makes it to the door that leads to the kitchen. Rorschach has frozen on the sixth step.

“Implying something?” His hands are fists. 

Daniel turns, one hand on the doorknob. “Um... just that it's been a hot night and I think we're both pretty sweaty and gross right now.”

“I see.”

“It was just a suggestion, you don't have to,” Daniel says helplessly.

“Good night, Daniel,” Rorschach growls, storming out of the Owl's Nest and leaving his partner agape. He had known this day would come. It came a little later than expected, but here it was. He went back to his rat-hole apartment and sat on the floor of the shower long enough that the hot water ran out, until he shivered uncontrollably under the cold stream, the bar of soap melted down to nothing and parallel red scratches where his fingernails had clawed.

~*~*~*~

Two weeks later, he falls into step next to Daniel on patrol. Daniel says, “It's good to see you again, buddy.” Rorschach grunts in acknowledgment. For a while, they're fine.

~*~*~*~

1975 changes everything for Rorschach. 1977 changes everything for Nite Owl. 

Rorschach is a part of this city now, filthy and reeking. He blends right in, so much the better to avoid detection as he goes about his unappreciated work. He's lived with it for so long that he no longer notices the smell, even though it sometimes disturbs him that he has difficulty telling where he ends and the city begins. But he knows what is right, knows what justice is and how to dispense it. Nothing else matters now.


End file.
